


Wrong Place, Wrong Time, Wrong Dart to the Neck

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Banter, Canon Era, Comrades in Arms, Fights, Flirting, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Misunderstandings, Resolved Sexual Tension, Season/Series 03, Sexual Tension, Tavern Tales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-10 00:48:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3270521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A celebration of S3 Arthur and Gwaine, tweaked for shipping comfort and ease of use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrong Place, Wrong Time, Wrong Dart to the Neck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alby_mangroves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/gifts), [aa_fic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aa_fic/gifts).



> Comment fic originally written for [Tavern Tales ](http://tavern-tales.livejournal.com/) November 2014 Challenge: [Rogues, Thieves, Conartists](http://tavern-tales.livejournal.com/8060.html)
> 
> For Alby_Mangroves and Asya_Ana, who prompted Arthur/Gwaine. Apologies - I really did intend to just write PWP set in Jarl's sweaty man meat fight club, but all the canon feels crept in!

_**Wrong Place**_

Gwaine's done nothing _but_ surprise him since their first meeting, both pleasantly and un-, so Arthur thinks he should have been better prepared for the sight that greets him when he goes looking for Merlin.

He is not.

After the initial shock of the intrusion, Gwaine aims a lazy smile up at him, the one hand resuming its languid stroking between spread thighs – beneath Merlin's very well-worn, very thin blanket – the other scratching idly at his bare chest. He's sculpted like a bloody statue. 

"Haven't seen him since breakfast," he says. "And the answer's much better, if you're asking. Nothing like nearly dying to make a man stiff." Then, when Arthur doesn't pull his eyes away fast enough, he adds, "You know, if you really want to thank me for saving your life, Princess, you could lend a hand. Always better with a friend, as I've been telling Merlin."

Caught completely off guard, Arthur laughs, masking outrage and panic under a dry, "I'll inform Gaius you've lapsed into delirium then, shall I?"

He flees to the sound of Gwaine's soft chuckle.

It's only after he's got the full measure of the man behind the profligate habits and lazy smile – after the incident with Sir Oswald, and again after the mêlée; after seeing Gwaine flirt shamelessly with Gwen and Merlin both – that Arthur lets himself consider that the invitation may have very well been sincere.

* * *

_**Wrong Time**_

He's glad of their company, of course he is. The Perilous Lands have proved well-worth the name, Gwaine's dead useful with a sword, and Merlin is… well, he's become a distressingly essential part of Arthur's life. This doesn’t mean, however, that it's in any way acceptable that they've put themselves in harm's way for him. Again.

On the return journey, he lectures them about royal duty, leadership, and honour – namely the great stain on _his_ at not being allowed to complete his quest unaided.

Merlin engages in a great deal of muttering and facial dramatics that make his feelings plain, but it's Gwaine who snorts openly.

"Some men are worth dying for and some are not," he says, sending Arthur a bold look over his shoulder. Then he nods towards Arthur's bedroll, where the trident is stashed. "No trinket, no matter how shiny nor bravely won, could ever change that."

Pride stung – because, yes, he'd insisted Merlin give it a polish when they'd stopped to water the horses – Arthur spurs his mount ahead, putting an end to the conversation. And yet the implication behind Gwaine's words, that Arthur _is_ worth it, is not lost on him; it lodges in his breast, bolsters him from within even as he contemplates the burden of such a responsibility. He carries it now for the men under his direct command, but to be king will be to multiply it ten thousand-fold and more.

That night around the campfire, he watches Merlin and Gwaine, noting the bodily ease between them, the obvious affection. They're giving him his space, and though it's what he demanded, it's no comfort at all. Brooding thus, he puts away half a skinful, and the next time they glance his way he finds himself thumping his chest, announcing, "Maybe _I_ needed to know, for me. That I could… on my own. Alone. Did you never think of that?"

"Arthur – " Merlin begins, fretful, but he's cut off by a hearty laugh.

"Fair enough," Gwaine says. "Though seeing as it doesn't take much in the way of bravery or skill to become wyvern fodder, I'm not sure you chose the best quest there, Princess."

"That's not what I – "

"Should we have left you to them, then?" Gwaine gestures back the way they've come. "Because I'm all for bad odds, but if you're truly determined to make mincemeat of yourself for no good reason, you're more than welcome to do that _alone._ " 

"Gwaine, don't," Merlin says, eyes on Arthur. The tension is broken, however, when his stomach chooses that moment to give a loud gurgle.

Gwaine laughs again, knocking his shoulder against Merlin's. "Fancy a bite yourself, is that it?" The firelight gleams off his wolfish grin as he leans in, eyes challenging, appraising. "I don't blame you, my friend. Princess looks quite the mouthfu– whoa! Hey!"

Gwaine puts up a decent struggle, but the element of surprise works in Arthur's favour. He's got Gwaine laid out on his back with a dagger to his throat before Merlin can come to his aid.

"Arthur! Honestly, what is it with you two?"

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur says between gritted teeth. He keeps his eyes on Gwaine. "And _you,_ show some respect. For yourself if not for me." 

Smiling, Gwaine lifts his hands in surrender. As soon as Arthur clambers off him, however, he's right back at it.

"And what about poor Merlin?" 

"If I thought he understood your crude advances, I'd worry, but just look at him."

"I have," Gwaine says as he sits up. He prods gingerly at his throat, then shrugs. "I do. What? He's exceedingly easy on the eyes."

"He's simple as the day is long," Arthur counters. He finds Gwaine's frankness unsettling.

"And as long as a man could wish for, eh, Merlin?"

Merlin leaps to his feet, stammering out something about firewood.

"I'll go," Arthur says hastily, and in a tone that brooks no argument. He stands, retrieves his sword, and stalks off without a backward glance. 

He stays away long past the time it takes to gather an armful of wood, not thinking about cocks and mouths and hands, nor about the way Gwaine had felt between his thighs, all that coiled strength momentarily tamed, grinning up at Arthur as if he'd won.

When he returns, Merlin's on his side, curled into himself, staring sleepily into the fire. Gwaine's sprawled out close beside him, snoring softly, one arm resting along Merlin's back. Arthur's bedroll, he notes, has been spread out on Gwaine's other side.

"It's warmer this way," Merlin whispers. 

"Is that what he told you?" Arthur mutters. He builds up the fire with the wood he has gathered, retrieves his bedroll, and settles himself on the opposite side of the blaze. He hears someone sigh. He assumes it's Merlin, then realises that the snoring's stopped.

* * *

_**Wrong Dart to the Neck**_

There's a sense of the inevitable about it, or as though he's been in this exact situation before, though Arthur knows he has not. 

It's dark save for what weak moonlight filters down into the depths of the ruined bell tower. They've been left alone, or as alone as they can be within the close confines, ever since Arthur volunteered to fight in Merlin's place. Arthur's claimed a patch of the outer wall for them. It's hardly the warmest spot, but it's well out of the range of Jarl's men who occasionally wander over to take a piss or toss gnawed bones into the pit. 

Gwaine had kept his distance at first, for appearances' sake, but now he joins them, edging round the piles of snoring, muttering men until he's at Merlin's side.

"You're shaking." There's a note of accusation in it; Arthur knows exactly who it's meant for.

"I'm f-f-fine," Merlin whispers.

"The hell you are, my friend. Arthur, help me warm him up."

Arthur suspects it's less the damp chill than a bad reaction to whatever poison was in those darts, but it's easier to go along with it, to leave off worrying and scheming and shift closer, reaching for Merlin's right arm and chafing it between his hands as Gwaine does the same for his left. 

It is noticeably warmer, being huddled together like this, and not altogether tedious. As Merlin's breathing evens out, Arthur finds a slower rhythm. He lets himself close his eyes. 

After a while, he becomes aware that Gwaine's moved on to rubbing circles on Merlin's chest, their arms sliding past one another. The occasional brush of skin on skin, just the backs of their knuckles, becomes more frequent, until Arthur's sure it's deliberate. 

He knows he should probably pull away, but he doesn’t. Instead, he catalogues the sensations and his body's response to them, indulges in the shameful thrill of taking comfort when he is supposed to be giving it. By the time he feels Gwaine's fingers curling against his wrist, Arthur is half-hard, imagining far less innocent pursuits. That morning in Merlin's room, that night by the campfire, what if…?

He lets Gwaine guide his hand onto Merlin's chest, rubbing a few more lazy circles with it before clasping it in a firm embrace. 

"That's it," Gwaine murmurs. "Easy now. Get some rest. Be out of here in no time."

Arthur doesn't sleep a wink, not even after Gwaine disentangles himself and slips off into the shadows.

* * *

_**No Chance**_

In all that follows – the desperate escape and disastrous quest, the shocking homecoming and bitter retreat – Arthur barely has time to think back on their mock-fight. He knows that, after that first blow, neither of them were pulling their punches, and having a grand time of it, too, but he convinces himself that he'd merely imagined the answering hardness pressed against his thigh when they'd crashed to the floor – imagined, too, the cheeky thrust and the panted, "Well, that's one option, Princess, but I doubt it'd distract this lot for long."

In the cave, the raging fire in Arthur's heart at his family's betrayals swiftly burns out, giving way to hollow despair. Save for Merlin, his men leave him be, tiptoeing round him with averted eyes and grave expressions in a manner that does nothing for his confidence. Ironically it is Gwaine, with his disdain for rank and privilege, who keeps Arthur from completely abandoning his duties as prince.

He's subdued, for Gwaine, but on the whole seems largely unfazed by their current situation. Arthur feels his eyes on him from time to time – warm, alert, curious – and he knows perfectly well that it's he who often flops down at Arthur's back at night, never touching, but near enough that if Arthur wanted to, he could easily make up the distance with no one the wiser. 

Arthur never does, but he sleeps easier on the nights when Gwaine is near. And of all the pledges sworn around the table of the old kings, it is Gwaine's that heartens him the most, because he was the least certain of it.

* * *

_**Wouldn't Miss It for the World**_

Arthur's skimming the castle damage reports when the knock comes. His mind is buzzing, his blood still singing from their sudden, absolute victory in the face of what seemed impossible odds. 

It's all still there: the heat of the torches at his back; his father stunned, crouching like a wounded animal; the enemy who would not die; the exact moment fear, blood-lust and anger were transmuted into a single, diamond-hard truth. He'd been so certain that he would die – that they would all die – where they stood, fighting for Camelot. _"Death or glory, boy?"_ as that filthy slave-trader had put it in Essetir, and the answer in Arthur's heart a grim: _Both. Today, I say it shall be both._

Then, before his eyes, men turning to naught but embers and tatters of blackened cloth, the flagstones ringing with the clatter of their fallen swords. The walls shaking, the unearthly screams…

Arthur's roused from the memory by another round of knocking, erratic, but insistent.

"Enter!" he shouts. He has no idea why Merlin's suddenly taken to the propriety, but he decides he won’t tease him for it so long as he's brought enough wine to drown in and a hot meal from the kitchens. It’s been far too long since he's had either. 

"Took you long enough," he says, quickly glancing through the remaining reports before stacking them and shunting them aside. "One would think you'd been – "

The words die on Arthur's lips as he looks up to see, not Merlin staggering under a tray, but Gwaine, lounging against Arthur's bedpost. He's got one arm wrapped round it, the other dangling at his side, a familiar half-smile on his face.

"Gwaine?" Arthur stands, bracing his fingertips on the edge of the table. Gwaine's posture, he notes, is deceptively casual; there is a tension in his limbs, something burning in his expression. "What is it? What's happened?"

The smile flickers, fades. Arthur can see Gwaine's throat work as he swallows, and the way his fingers twitch against his thigh. 

"Touch me again and you die," Gwaine says, holding Arthur's gaze.

"What?"

" 'Touch me again and you die.' That's what you said to me in the pit."

"So?" It's said with impatience, but Gwaine doesn't react. Arthur feels his own blood betraying him, rising in his cheeks, and pushes away from the table. He means to walk past, to invite Gwaine to say whatever it is that needs saying in the antechamber, where his knives are all laid out awaiting sharpening, but his legs betray him as well. He stops within an arm's length of the bedpost.

"So?" he repeats, this time as a challenge.

"So, Princess, I'll wager you didn’t mean it. In fact…" Gwaine pauses, his eyes sliding boldly down Arthur's form and back up. The half-smile has returned, though at present it seems more searching than sly. He claps Arthur loosely on the shoulder with his free hand, leaves it there. "Look, am I wrong in thinking that we have unfinished business?"

"Such as…?" Arthur lifts an eyebrow. A lifetime's training in learning to keep inconvenient emotions off his face and just now it's all going towards this. He wants to see if Gwaine will call his bluff, will put a name to this thing that they've been circling from the start.

The hand moves, slides up and in until Arthur feels the edge of Gwaine's thumb on his neck. Rough skin stroking smooth, both too little and too much. Arthur steps nearer, curling his hands into fists even as he feels Gwaine's fingers slip round the back of his neck.

Rather than answering, Gwaine slowly pulls him into a one-armed embrace, his whiskers scuffing Arthur's cheek.

"Don’t know about you," he says, "but I nearly died today, came closer than I ever have, and you know I have a certain reputation for – "

"Trouble," Arthur mutters, then immediately regrets it, as it causes Gwaine to chuckle. In his ear and all down his front, a vibrant, loose-limbed shudder.

"See, I'd call it knowing the antidote to a dull life."

"A man could choke on such a cure."

"If he's lucky," Gwaine murmurs, lips grazing Arthur's ear. Then, with another chuckle, this one sheepish, he adds, "Sorry, can't seem to stop myself." 

At this sign of nerves, Arthur finally finds the strength to uncurl his fists. He grasps the front of Gwaine's shirt, forcing them apart.

"Gwaine, just what – "

Gwaine lunges, hooking a heel behind Arthur's leg, taking them down to the floor in a graceless heap. " _You,_ Arthur," he says, grabbing for Arthur's face. "Gods, Arthur, you – " The kiss is far gentler than the grappling that leads up to it, but thorough. Gwaine's mouth is bitter with ale and almost shockingly warm. When it's over, he releases Arthur and sits back on his haunches, breathing heavily. He holds his hands as if in surrender.

"You make a man want to see things through," he says, "which I'd curse you for if I didn't want you so badly."

" _Gwaine –_ "

"Look, you can punch me if you like. I deserve it. Just hear me out first. I thought… Well, at first I thought I had no chance, then I misunderstood about Merlin. About how close you are. That you were never jealous of _me,_ because the bond you share with him…" Gwaine trails off with a fond smile, shaking his head. "I don't understand it, but I respect it. And I know now that I was a fool to think I could ever weaken it. Which leaves two possibilities."

Gwaine pauses, watching for Arthur's reaction. Arthur's pushed himself up onto his elbows by this point, right knee bent, foot planted on the floor. His clothes are mussed, his cock roused – as it has been since Gwaine first touched him – and his left leg is still trapped between Gwaine's. With all the throne room dignity he can muster, he juts his chin, wordlessly nodding for Gwaine to continue. 

"One, against all odds, you really don't fancy me in the least." His eyes flick to Arthur's crotch as he says it, and damn him if he doesn't smirk. "Or, two, you're too noble for your own good, and this whole time you've been keeping your hands to yourself because you think Merlin has some claim on me, or that it's wrong for a prince to tumble a commoner."

It's more that Gwaine is a man, and a rogue at that, neither of which are supposed to be part of Arthur's intimate life save as an outlet of last resort – the sort of liaisons bred on campaign and never spoken of back home. But it's clear Gwaine has known no such boundaries; to fling them in his face now just because Arthur has trouble expressing his true feelings would only be cowardice.

Instead, he raises his left leg until it's snugged between Gwaine's, searches out the generous swell of his balls, the firm root of his cock.

"My reasons were my own," he says. "Though not what you suppose."

Gwaine looks down, eyes wide, watching Arthur's thigh on its slow journey back and forth. "And now?"

"I trust that any knight of mine would not offer himself thus if he were otherwise committed…and that _you_ would not seek to bed a prince just for the gilded notch in your bedpost."

Gwaine's head comes up, an odd expression on his face. His smile wavers, then breaks out full force. "Is that a yes? Please god tell me that's a yes."

Arthur grabs Gwaine's shirt and hauls him back down for another kiss. Their foreheads clash, then their noses, but at last it's all lips and tongues with just the nicest hint of teeth. He enjoys the weight of Gwaine on top of him, the sweep of his hair and surge of his hips, but doesn’t want him thinking this is how it's always going to be, so as soon as he's able he flips them, pinning Gwaine's arms above his head.

"Yes," he says at last, as if there is any doubt, and loves the belly-laugh he gets in response. 

Gwaine works one hand loose with a raised eyebrow and a, "Promise it's for a good cause," and he's not lying, as he promptly cups Arthur through his breeches. "Well look at you," he says appreciatively. "God but you're a lovely heap of man. If I had Merlin's job I'd be in a right state, be rubbing myself raw every morning and evening after dressing you."

Arthur doesn't know what to do with such words, so he just hums and closes his eyes. He knows he's not ill-made. He's been told he's fair since birth and is used to being looked over like so much horseflesh by his father's would-be allies. But there is something about the sheer carnality of Gwaine's attentions, the honesty coupled with irreverence, that beguiles his jaded ear, makes him feel like a maid whose charms have just been noticed.

"Whereas you are ugly as sin," Arthur grits out before he shames himself by spending in his clothes, "but you've got a good heart and a clever pair of hands, so – hey!" Suddenly the sweet pressure is gone, and as he opens his eyes Arthur feels a sharp slap on his arse.

"You keep talking that sort of sass and I'm never going to let you up off this floor."

"I think you'll find that _you_ are the one on the floor."

Gwaine grins. "Not if you'll be the fine and chivalrous man I know you are and ask me to your bed."

When Arthur pretends to balk at this, Gwaine adds, "There is this thing we commoners like to do with our tongues…"

Arthur laughs, backing off Gwaine, helping to haul him to his feet. "By all means," he says, gesturing towards the bed.

But when they've stripped down to their skins, and the banter has given way to simpler, baser means of communication, Arthur cannot bear this last lie between them. He stills Gwaine with hands on his shoulder and chin, urges him back up until they are eye to eye.

"You're as common as I am," he says, willing Gwaine to understand that he would have chosen him regardless.

Gwaine blinks, gives a brief shake of his head. "Merlin," he says. "Should've known. No secrets there."

"No," Arthur hastens to say. "He only confirmed it when pressed. It was Geoffrey. I had him look into you. The way you fight, my friend – it's unique, I'll grant, but there's a solid core of court training there." Arthur scuffs his thumb through Gwaine's beard stubble, pleased by how soft it feels on the way down, yet rough on the up. "No peasant can mimic that."

"What of Lancelot?"

"Lancelot is the exception. I'm not fool enough to think I'd sway two such rare men to my cause."

"You're no such fool as that," Gwaine agrees, turning his face into Arthur's palm and rubbing hard against it. He catches Arthur's thumb in his teeth and pulls it into the wet heat of his mouth, laving it with his tongue, then sucking gently.

Arthur forgets to breathe for a moment, which is how he accounts for how lightheaded he feels when his thumb is released and Gwaine says, "But I should warn you, I have lived as a commoner for many years now."

"So that thing you mentioned..."

"Yes. Very much _yes_."

"Well your secret's safe with me," Arthur says, letting go of Gwaine and settling back against the pillows. He's closing his eyes, warmly anticipating Gwaine's mouth on his cock when he hears, "Turn over."

"What?"

"Trust me, Princess, you're going to like this."

"If you think you're going to get away with – "

"I know you're used to having your arse kissed day-in day-out, but tell me, have you ever had it properly eaten?"

"I…"

* * *

By morning, Arthur has to agree with Gwaine. Whatever the odds against them, he wouldn’t miss this for the world – and neither, apparently, would Merlin. He turns up conveniently late with a mysterious smile and a hearty breakfast for two, and he seems to take Gwaine's presence in Arthur's bed as an invitation to sit on it, prattle on about new days and round tables, and scarf down all the berries.


End file.
